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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24696232">make you proud</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/architecture_in_f1ll0ry/pseuds/architecture_in_f1ll0ry'>architecture_in_f1ll0ry</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Dragon Prince (Cartoon)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Everyone is Gay and Sad, M/M, and aaravos who is just gay, except claudia who is just sad, magefam needs therapy, sometimes I enjoy making the ones I love suffer, ten points to whoever finds it, the lightest gentlest sprinkle of soren/corvus, this starts lighthearted and ends anything but</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 09:07:55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,960</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24696232</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/architecture_in_f1ll0ry/pseuds/architecture_in_f1ll0ry</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A story of want, and wanting—in which no one gets what they want.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aaravos/Viren (The Dragon Prince), Crow Master/Soren (The Dragon Prince), Kasef/Soren (The Dragon Prince), Kasef/Viren (The Dragon Prince)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>32</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>make you proud</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>here is my hilariously late contribution to magefam week, which feels like it happened approximately 8 years ago. the borgias reference in the summary wasn't planned, but I'm going with it. don't read into it. </p><p>YEAH I gave crow master a name because I was losing my patience. (thank you, ren, bet you didn't think I would actually use it.)</p><p>probably way too self-indulgent to be considered a character study, but boy did I Have Fun. justice for kasef, a perfect cinnamon roll who did nothing wrong.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Maybe it's the way the late afternoon sun renders the prince’s brown skin a dazzling burnished bronze, as he stands framed momentarily in the grand entryway, crown gleaming, like an angry young god.</p><p> </p><p>Or maybe it's the way his eyes don't even register Soren standing <em> right there</em>, despite his freshly-polished armor, his prominent placement among the Crown Guard, and...the way he cannot not do anything but stare as the prince and his coterie pass—in a manner not quite befitting his position, if Claudia’s sharp elbow jab is anything to go by.</p><p> </p><p>“What?” Soren snaps under his breath, eyes darting away from Claudia’s half puzzled, half disbelieving glance. A slow itch spreads beneath his skin, and he needs a glass of cold water, or maybe a cold shower? or, or something.</p><p> </p><p>Claudia snorts loudly, beams with innocence when another guard turns to raise their eyebrow at the lewd noise. “Nothing, Sor-bear. Nothing at all.”</p><p> </p><p>No, Soren decides later — it’s definitely the ponytail, all voluminous and wispy against the prince’s broad neck, so distracting that it makes him think of words like <em> voluminous</em>. It’s something like, the sternness of his gaze is somewhat softened by the gentle bouncing of those long tresses, or, no, it’s those little tufts on the top, a bit too short to gather beneath his hairband, that bely the austerity of his posture, or,</p><p> </p><p>Huh. Maybe Soren just has a thing for <em> ponytails? </em>Could that be a thing?</p><p> </p><p>//</p><p> </p><p>“Hi, Soren?”</p><p> </p><p>He snaps to attention quickly, suddenly all-too aware that he’s been daydreaming again, and he’s in public, and he needs to stop that. He looks down to find the Crow Master—Raven, a hilarious naming coincidence which still hasn’t ceased to delight him, fidgeting as he awaits acknowledgement, face curiously red. </p><p> </p><p>“Yo, Crow,” he offers somewhat pathetically, but jabs his thumbs at him with a winning smile. “Nice haircut.”</p><p> </p><p>At this, Raven’s face flickers rapidly between shock, glee, and mortification, and he coughs a bit before replying. “Uh, thank you! I—yeah. I, cut it, myself—yesterday, and I didn’t think you’d, I—”</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, do you know what the word <em> voluminous </em> means?” Soren interrupts curiously, stretching the syllables like taffy. Raven stops short, shuts his mouth with an audible click. </p><p> </p><p>“Um, voluminous like, full of...volume...?”</p><p> </p><p>“So like, bouncy? And silky, probably?"</p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p> </p><p>“Never mind. Did you want to tell me something?” Soren asks, giving him a quizzical look. He knows he and Claudia are cool, but he always seems so <em> nervous </em> around Soren, it’s weird. He wonders if he’s being rude. “Sorry, man, not rushing you or anything. Take your time, let’s chat.”</p><p> </p><p>Raven shakes his head, pinching out a self-conscious laugh. “No, sorry, yeah, I just—” his mouth works a while in silence as he watches Soren watching him, “I know the army is leaving soon, for, the war! And that’s. Well I just wanted to say, good luck?” He pauses, cheeks flushing pink again. “I hope you...don’t, get hurt? Or—”</p><p> </p><p>“Or die?” Soren laughs, shaking his head a little, happy for this bizarre distraction from the maddening carousel of...thoughts. “Thanks, same! Hey come on, bring it in.” He closes the distance between them to pull the smaller man in for a tight hug, clapping him warmly on the back. He’s a little surprised when he feels Raven sort of...cling to him a bit harder than expected, but it is a bit of a somber moment, he supposes. His concern is touching. He pulls away, giving him a warm smile, his attention suddenly caught by movement near the doors—it’s him, Prince Kasef, flanked by two guards, and he’s walking toward Soren. Right now. </p><p> </p><p>“I actually, I wanted to tell you that—”</p><p> </p><p>“What?” Soren asks distractedly, dragging his gaze back to Raven, who has a sort of determined set to his brow and mouth. He can’t help the way his eyes skitter back to the prince, who looks both out of sorts and mildly displeased as always, eyes sweeping the empty corridor as if assessing its threat level. </p><p> </p><p>“There’s something I’ve, uh, kind of been wanting to tell you—”</p><p> </p><p>Soren is half-turning, preparing to speak, or, not speak, and just listen, or whatever, but the prince’s attention is caught by another contingent of Neolandian soldiers who file in from an adjoining corridor, one of them carrying a scroll. A ledger of weaponry and horses, it sounds like, and it’s evidently important enough to require the prince to leave with them without a backwards glance. Was he really planning on coming to talk to Soren? For what? </p><p> </p><p>“—is that I...like you. Um, which I hope isn’t—doesn’t offend.” Raven seems to notice for the first time that he doesn’t have Soren’s full attention, and clears his throat, half-turning to seek out whatever it is that’s so distracting. </p><p> </p><p>“Totally! Listen, man,” Soren fudges, having completely lost the thread, clapping a hand warmly on Raven’s shoulder. “You’re the best, seriously. I appreciate this. Let’s hang when I’m back, cool?” He flashes him a wide grin and a wink, gratified to receive a hesitant smile in return. “Because I’ll be back, you can count on it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, I’d like that,” Raven returns sincerely, swelling with muted joy, biting his lip. “Okay,” he nods, eyes darting away before they return to Soren, “Well, bye.”</p><p> </p><p>“Bye!” Soren hums wonderingly under his breath as he watches him go with a slight frown, the feeling growing that there was some crucial puzzle piece of that conversation he had misplaced. Before he can try to figure it out, his father breezes into his line of sight, Claudia at his side. </p><p> </p><p>“Soren, come,” Viren demands, brisk and straight-backed as ever. “We have a few matters to discuss before we depart tomorrow.” </p><p> </p><p>//</p><p> </p><p>It isn't that Kasef was <em> glad </em> that his father was injured—it broke his heart, a little bit, to see Jesse and Vanessa’s downcast little faces hanging by his bedside, bored and bereft without their doting father chasing them around the castle. He’d never understood the king’s endless patience for their six-year-old antics, but he supposed he was the perfect foil to the queen, who loved her children in her own way, but didn’t relate to them on quite so intimate or playful a level.</p><p> </p><p>He’d always taken after his mother, and it was her steady, quiet presence he knew he would miss the most. Katolis was poised on the edge of leaderless chaos, she had told him before he left. He was to make an ally of Viren, who had warned his father of the Xadian threat—to no avail—and represent Neolandia with the strength and might it was overdue. So no, he's not glad that his father is out of commission, but he is grateful—however clouded that gratitude is with fear—for the chance to prove himself. On the eve of his departure, Vanessa clung to him and sobbed while Jesse sulked in a corner, angry that he was not allowed to join, despite his very capable wooden sword and tin armor. </p><p> </p><p>Already twenty and this was his first time going off to face a foreign conflict—one that was very likely to escalate into all-out war—as the Prince and future King, the stand-in leader of his kingdom. The steady, lumbering hoofbeats of their troops as they set out for Katolis stirred fear and exhilaration deep within him; he felt, for the very first time, the thrum of real power and responsibility surging through his veins. He could not let his family, nor his nation down.</p><p> </p><p>He’d heard enough stories of Viren to expect to find the man formidable and stiff, but what his father had left out was how...incredibly <em> compelling </em> he was, as well. It wasn’t just his appearance, of course—his slim, yet solid form, all sweeping lines and angular planes, the firm set of his jaw, the heavy, expressive brows, and his piercing grey gaze—but his <em>voice</em> as well. Well, not just his voice, but the ringing command of it, smooth, often smug, in a way that made Kasef’s hackles rise at the same time he found himself agreeing automatically with whatever he said. There was an undeniable <em> sway </em> the man possessed, an expert blend of candor and discretion that made Kasef feel both trusted and disdained to, even as he fought the urge to squirm, like a pinned butterfly, whenever they spoke. </p><p> </p><p>Enough dancing around it. Kasef glances around to be sure no one is watching him, somehow able to divine the wholly inappropriate tenor of his thoughts, as their blended army picks its way along the rocky path that will lead them to the border. He has no reason to worry: the pall of anxiety at what might await them that only began to seep into their advancing lines leagues back has fully settled over the troops, heavy and thick. Kasef is not afraid, or rather, he has become too accustomed to pretending he isn’t afraid, and so it’s easier to lean into this much more pleasant distraction.</p><p> </p><p>Distraction.</p><p> </p><p>He’s suffered the quiet indignities of tongue-tied bluster quite enough—easy enough to pass off as anger, as everyone <em> expects </em> him to be angry, as much as they expect him not to show fear. He’s learned how to arrange and lock his features, betraying none of the way his blood thunders through his veins; how to ingratiate himself to the King regent without fully compromising his own pride; how to steal enough quick glances to firmly put him past the realm of admiring and into the dangerous waters of <em> wanting. </em>It’s work. It’s tiring. Finally, he allows the precarious wall of denial to come crumbling down.</p><p> </p><p>The thing is, he’s completely infatuated with Viren—<em> Viren</em>, who is old enough to be his father—and the shame he feels only further fans the flames of his desire. But he has neither the time nor the inclination to self-flagellate about it; he had no trouble concealing it while they readied their troops for battle and began the long journey into Xadia; why should the future be any different? He is an unseasoned soldier, loath as he is to admit it, and he is grateful to Viren for seamlessly taking command, assuming the mantle of general of both the Neolandian and Katolian armies without ever overtly making Kasef feel patronized. A mercy. Kasef is observant; he has seen the way Viren treats those he considers less clever or strategic than him, and his barbs are often delivered so rapidly, almost <em> surgical </em> in their precision, that the other party is left floundering as Viren stalks away. That Kasef is never subjected to this level of outright mockery is both a comfort and an embarrassment. Is it that Viren has found something within Kasef that he respects, in spite of his youth? Or is he simply trying to maintain an alliance with a neighboring kingdom to bolster his claim when this clash of rulers inevitably grows ugly? He spares a thought to what his father might think, as he watches Viren delegate and make quick decisions, and remembers that it was his father’s lack of proper judgment, lack of trust in Viren, that landed them all here in the first place. </p><p> </p><p>Kasef will do better, will <em> be </em> better. He has no choice.</p><p> </p><p>//</p><p> </p><p>“Prince Kasef?” Viren’s voice interrupts his momentary reverie, and he suppresses a shudder, ignoring the sudden curl of heat low in his gut. They are only one day out from Xadia, sheltered beneath a copse of trees for the night. Kasef strides over to where Viren has made his camp, nods to his son, whose name he either can’t remember or never learned. He is watching Kasef with a studied indifference, which Kasef would try to parse if Viren were not watching his approach with what feels like extra attentiveness. He comes to a halt before him, automatically lowering himself into a small bow.</p><p> </p><p>“Lord Viren.” He straightens, turning to his son, whose cheekbones and chin harness the same angled firmness as Viren’s, his eyes a sharp contrast in their open vulnerability. “Apologies, I don’t think we’ve had a chance to meet.”</p><p> </p><p>He starts, his gaze flying to Viren before settling back on Kasef with a small smile, a bit too friendly. “Soren. Son of Lord Viren. Crown guard, it’s a pleasure.”</p><p> </p><p>Kasef eyes him carefully, unsure if his jocularity is some kind of front or if he’s just...like that. “Likewise,” he intones politely, letting his attention slide back to Viren. “You needed me?” He grits his jaw against the threat of a blush at his unintentional innuendo. <em> Grow up. </em></p><p> </p><p>“Yes. Soren, I need to speak with the prince. We aren’t to be disturbed.” Before he’s finished speaking, Viren turns, crooking his fingers once over his right shoulder, and Kasef follows, accidentally catching Soren’s eye as he does. He’s unable to decipher his look, but it’s...interesting, and even more interesting when Soren snaps his gaze away, looking up at the stars that have just begun twinkling into view.</p><p> </p><p>Kasef doesn’t have to hurry to keep pace with Viren, who is walking with purpose away from where their camp has settled. He says nothing as they approach a nearby river, its steady rush noisy enough to drown out their voices from any curious ears. Kasef clasps his hands behind his back, shooting Viren a curious glance as he settles into what he hopes is an appropriate distance from the man, who is looking into the distance at something Kasef can’t see.</p><p> </p><p>“Lord Viren?” he begins uncertainly, ready to combust from the silence. </p><p> </p><p>“Prince Kasef, I wanted to tell you how sorry I am for your father’s grave injury,” Viren responds smoothly, turning to face him, pinning him to the spot with that pressing gaze. </p><p> </p><p>Kasef says nothing, confused. Viren had told him this before, upon his arrival in Katolis nearly a week ago.</p><p> </p><p>“I suppose it is hitting me anew, as we approach the border,” Viren continues, beginning to pace a bit. “The horrors of war, they shouldn’t be exposed to one so young.” He pauses, coming closer to place a warm hand on Kasef’s shoulder. The sun is setting, a slow, syrupy orange and lilac sprawled across the sky, casting gentle shadows across Viren’s face, softening his features. Kasef can see the several prominent silver hairs speckled in his facial hair, dusted across his temples. It sends a dizzying wave of heat through his body, focused on the point where Viren is touching him. </p><p> </p><p>“I—” Kasef blinks, wetting his mouth so he can speak. “I’ll be twenty-one in a few months. I’m hardly a child.” It’s immature, petulant, the opposite of the tone he’d like to set, but his brain and his mouth feel momentarily disconnected. His heart pounds when Viren gives him a gentle smirk, both indulgent and kind. Kasef’s mother always berated his quickness to perceive a slight, but Viren’s expression is obvious. It’s insulting.</p><p> </p><p>“Of course. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. My apologies.”</p><p> </p><p>“What is your plan?” Kasef demands, feeling bright with a sudden rage, his breaths coming faster as he watches the play of surprise across Viren’s face. “I’d like to know, so my soldiers can be prepared.”</p><p> </p><p>“I will reveal it when the time is right,” Viren rejoins coolly, dropping his hand from Kasef’s shoulder. Before he can step away, Kasef reaches out, of seemingly no volition of his own, immediate horror warring with the overwhelming swell of his wounded pride. Viren pauses, looks down at the fist clenched in the collar of his robes. </p><p> </p><p>“What are you doing, Prince Kasef?” </p><p> </p><p>Terror and lust slice through Kasef at equal speeds, the thud of his heart nearly audible. Viren was right, he was a child, a stupid one, evidently, and he was impulsive and likely going to die soon, so, fuck it. Fuck it.</p><p> </p><p>“What does it look like,” Kasef murmurs at the same low volume, and can’t help his smirk when Viren’s breath hitches, gears finally clicking into place as he registers the heat in Kasef’s eyes, which is quickly bleeding into something more dangerous than anger. Kasef tugs him closer, reckless, too reckless, but Viren isn’t shoving him away, or punching him in the face, or saying anything at all as he watches Kasef calculatingly, twining a slow hand into his hair, fingers curling and then applying pressure slowly, until Kasef gasps, his head tipping back in silent obedience. He strains to keep his eyes on Viren’s face, which has slipped back into cold impassivity, nonetheless stoking that unholy fire. His breath washes over Kasef’s mouth when he speaks, a torturously weightless caress.</p><p> </p><p>“Do not <em> play </em> with me, boy.” Viren does not move closer, does not acknowledge Kasef’s wholly involuntary jerk forwards, the desperate press of their clothed bodies in the swiftly gathering dark. Viren is like a statue, firm and unyielding against Kasef’s cloying need. He lets go of his hair, watching Kasef’s head snap back up, huffs a small, cruel laugh at his dilated pupils. “This is not what you think it is.”</p><p> </p><p>“Could it be?” Kasef presses quietly, dogged and bare, holding onto this moment to prolong it, just a little. Soon they will make their silent way back to the camp, and Kasef will begin the arduous process of punishing himself for this—he can already feel the clouds of his humiliation beginning to gather, threatening their miserable downpour. Now, though. Now, he still has Viren’s attention, all to himself, here in the murky evening. That this tense proximity should still spark small tendrils of <em> desire </em> along his skin, however chastened by Viren’s initial rebuff, is testament to a much larger problem that, hopefully, won’t need to be examined before he is mercifully snuffed out by dragonfire.</p><p> </p><p>Viren pauses and tilts his head, as if <em> considering, </em> and Kasef can’t help but imagine it: imagine taking advantage of the momentary fork in this particular path that separates the inevitable from the impossible. The impossible, being this: sliding down until his knees connect with the hard earth, swaying forward to rub his cheek along the rise of Viren’s thigh, taut and trembling below his touch. The impossible, being this: reaching in and reveling in the sharp intake of breath overhead, nuzzling against that line of silken heat, opening his mouth wide to taste, to lap and suck and swallow, inhaling that musky, intimate scent, burning with delicious shame, grateful for the opportunity to continue this sharp descent to certain damnation. </p><p> </p><p>The lurid illusion shatters when Viren sighs, an unexpected sound, pats Kasef’s shoulder again twice. It’s something close to pity, or worse: paternal. Mollifying. Inevitable.</p><p> </p><p>“Let’s head back to camp. We have to get an early start in the morning,” he says, back at a normal volume, maddeningly regular. As if the past five minutes weren’t even worth acknowledging. Kasef’s skin burns as he jerks away, wanting to scrub his shoulder of that touch, feeling it settle beneath his skin and seethe with jilted want. Viren doesn’t say anything as Kasef stalks ahead, and he doesn’t say anything when they reenter the camp’s enclosure to a few curious glances from the milling soldiers, drinking from canteens passed around hissing, flickering firepits. </p><p> </p><p>“Uh oh,” Claudia whispers to Soren, as they watch Kasef breeze past them, face set in stiff rage, and disappear into his tent. “What happened to Prince Poutymouth?”</p><p> </p><p>“Great question,” Soren mumbles, eyes narrowed as he watches him go. For once, he wishes his father could be less of an asshole, and then immediately feels guilty at his lack of guilt for the thought. Viren seems completely unaffected as he talks to a few generals, and Soren wonders what could have possibly gotten Kasef so riled up. He hopes whatever it was wouldn’t piss the prince off enough that he would take his army back home. Because they needed all of the help they could get if they were going to have even the slightest chance of making it out of this stupid war alive—and also, Soren hadn’t even had any real chance to—</p><p> </p><p>“—swear on everything vaguely holy that I will hold you face-down in hot mud until you tell me what the <em> hell </em> is going on with you,” Claudia finishes in a sharp hiss, rapping her knuckles hard against Soren’s temple.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>OW! </em> What the fuck, Claudia?”</p><p> </p><p>“What is the matter with you? You’ve been spaced out for weeks,” Claudia demands, unrepentant as Soren rubs his head with a pained wince. “If you lie to me, I’ll clock you again.”</p><p> </p><p>“Why even ask, if you’re already so sure of what I’m going to say?” Soren snaps, glad that the night sky is concealing the heat that floods into his face.</p><p> </p><p>“Because I want to hear you admit it,” Claudia teases with a wicked grin, and then just says it anyway. “You’ve got it baaaaad for the prince, my dear brother.”</p><p> </p><p>“I really hate you, did you know that? Like, really.”</p><p> </p><p>“Aw, don’t be like that. Seriously, Sor-bear, you’re so obvious that it's painful. Just go sit on him already, he could use a little stress relief.”</p><p> </p><p>Soren splutters, unable to meet her eyes at the image that her words conjure. “I don’t even know where to start with that,” he chokes out, curling his hands into fists, pivoting his body away from this conversation, for decency’s sake. “You are my<em> little sister </em>and now my ears are bleeding.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah alright, get over yourself.” Claudia nudges him, the top of her shoulder barely clearing his elbow. “Just <em> talk </em> to him! Instead of staring all the time!”</p><p> </p><p>“He’s not—I <em> don’t </em> st—” Soren shakes his head, continuing to look anywhere but at her. “I would do literally anything for you to stop talking right now.”</p><p> </p><p>“Does that include you going to tell Prince Kasef how much you’d like to wear his perky ass as a ha—<em> Dad! </em>” Claudia’s eyes bulge as Soren shuts his own in utter dismay and humiliation as they both finally notice their father standing in front of them, watching them with a placid expression.</p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Viren intones after a terrible pause, his eyes steadfastly avoiding Soren’s as he gestures to their tent. “You two can rest. I will take this watch.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sure thing, okay.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yup, got it.”</p><p> </p><p>//</p><p> </p><p>“Hey.” </p><p> </p><p>It’s the first word uttered in minutes, disrupting the tense silence of the tent.</p><p> </p><p>“Believe it or not, Clauds, I actually—” Soren’s voice grows muffled as he wrestles his way out of his breastplate, dropping it onto the ground with a clang. “Don’t feel like talking to you right now,” he finishes, toeing off his boots. Claudia sighs, looking over at him from where she’s lying on her back on her bedroll, braiding her hair over one shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t be so dramatic. It’s not like Dad’s going to say anything.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t care about Dad,” Soren grumbles, face flushed. Once the rest of his armor is finally off, he slumps into sitting on his bedroll, elbows to his knees, face in his hands. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey,” Claudia murmurs, alarmed, sitting up to face him. A cool wind blows in through a crack in the tent, and she shivers. “Soren, come on, talk to me.”</p><p> </p><p>“What do you want me to say? You know everything anyway, don’t you.”</p><p> </p><p>“I—” Claudia pauses, uncertain. “I’m sorry, alright? I didn’t know he was such a big deal to you.”</p><p> </p><p>“It's not h—” Soren begins in frustration, then cuts himself off with a heavy sigh. Scrubbing his face with his hands, he finally looks up at Claudia. “Forget that. Honestly, I don’t feel great about this. This whole...war, I mean.”</p><p> </p><p>An uneasy silence spreads while Claudia tries to think of how to respond. Who feels great about <em> war? </em> “Say more...”</p><p> </p><p>Soren’s jaw twitches, and he casts a quick glance to the door of their tent before pitching his voice so low she has to lean in to hear him. “Don’t you think Dad’s been acting strange?”</p><p> </p><p>“He’s always been strange, Soren.”</p><p> </p><p>“You know what I mean. More than usual.” Soren flicks his ear, gives Claudia a significant look. “I mean, what the hell <em> is </em> that thing?”</p><p> </p><p>Fair. Since childhood Claudia has been accustomed to all manner of strange plants and creatures that her father has taken momentary interest in, new subjects to study, more biological and magical secrets to plumb. But the purple caterpillar seemed...different. It was almost sinister, the unnatural way it stayed with him, even angled its little body when Viren was speaking, as if it were <em> listening </em> to him. </p><p> </p><p>“Well, yeah, and?” Claudia whispers uneasily, sick with paranoia about being overheard. “I’m sure it’s just—”</p><p> </p><p>Soren is chuckling before she can finish, but there’s no humor in it. “I admire your loyalty, Claudia, I do. But you have to realize what we’re doing here is, like...morally...<em> weird?” </em></p><p> </p><p>“I think the word you’re looking for is dubious.”</p><p> </p><p>“So you agree?”</p><p> </p><p>“I agree that this is...intense. But think about it! Why would Dad bring us all this way, all of these soldiers so far from home, if this wasn’t a worthy cause? You know that Xadia is basically responsible for genocide, right? And is threatening us<em> again? </em>Why shouldn’t we retaliate, take back what’s technically ours?”</p><p> </p><p>“Take back what’s—” Soren pauses, shakes his head in wonder, peering closely at Claudia. “Is that what you really believe?”</p><p> </p><p>“Soren, what the hell are you trying to say?”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know.” He stands, beginning to pace the short distance of the tent, his figure casting shadows on the gently fluttering walls. Claudia watches him, wary, feeling suddenly unsettled by the set of his brow, the determined jut of his chin. “I just wish...I just wish this felt more...just?”</p><p> </p><p>“Please don’t do anything stupid.” Claudia holds his gaze when his head whips around to look at her, and she can’t bother hiding the tears that quickly well up and begin to spill over her cheeks. It was Mom’s brow, it was her chin, that Claudia was seeing echoed across Soren’s face, the same expression she wore in the weeks leading up to her leaving them forever. Or maybe Claudia was just imagining the resemblance; half the time she struggled to remember exactly what Mom looked like, anyway. </p><p> </p><p>“Clauds,” Soren sighs, coming over to stoop in front of her, pulling her into a hug. She clings to him tightly, inhaling his familiar scent, feeling her tears soak into his shirt. “Okay, okay, I’m—I’m not going anywhere anytime soon. Alright? Please, don’t cry, okay?”</p><p> </p><p>“I <em> know </em> this is weird. Of course it’s fucking weird! You can’t leave me here! Where would you even <em> go?” </em></p><p> </p><p>“No one’s leaving,” Soren reassures her, patting her hair, feeling her quake against him with a pang of guilt. He can’t honestly say if he’s lying to her or not. He doesn’t put it past his father to take drastic steps to secure their victory, although what those steps will look like, he hardly dares to guess. At some point, though, he will have to stop ignoring the voice in his head that tells him that blindly following a leader isn’t honorable when that leader uses fear, intimidation, and violent coercion to achieve their aims. Even if that leader is his father, and even if he has trouble remembering the last time said father gave him a genuine smile or kind word.</p><p> </p><p>He can’t share this with Claudia right now, though he knows someday it will likely become inevitable. The dream of a family unit that she clings so tightly to has already begun to fracture, and in Soren’s estimation, fully broke when Viren expressed, quite plainly, that he didn’t care if Soren lived or died. It’s easier for Claudia to disregard, and Soren has stopped feeling bitter toward her about that—for the most part. </p><p> </p><p>“Let’s get some sleep. It’s been a long day.” Claudia sniffles, nods, and pulls away, taking a deep breath and wiping her eyes. Soren pats her shoulder awkwardly, and waits until she’s under her blanket before sliding into his, folding his arms below his head and staring up at the ceiling. He can hear the hisses and crackles of the fire pits still blazing outside of the tent, muted conversations and faint laughter. He wonders if Kasef is among them, if he’s still sore about whatever had pissed him off before. Glancing over at Claudia—breathing deep, but not quite asleep yet—he resolves himself to staying put until it’s his turn to patrol. Being the good big brother, the good son, that the world expects him to be.</p><p> </p><p>He can keep doing that, for now.</p><p> </p><p>//</p><p> </p><p>“Quite the unexpected overture,” an amused voice breathes into his ear, and Viren tenses, eyes automatically scanning his surroundings before remembering, again, only he is able to see and hear the elf, suddenly seated beside him at his post. It’s a little bit after midnight, and most of the camp is quiet, only a few soldiers tending to their fires, keeping watch at the various entry points of their site.</p><p> </p><p>“Of course,” Viren grumbles. “Of course you saw that.”</p><p> </p><p>Aaravos hums in agreement, perching his chin on an upturned palm, regarding Viren with a curious grin. “My little heartbreaker.”</p><p> </p><p>Viren tosses him a glare, resolutely ignoring the heated flush that prickles up his neck. How quickly his dignity begins to fracture when Aaravos is around. “I am not <em> your little </em>anything.”</p><p> </p><p>“Mmm. Of course.” Despite the fact that he lacks a physical form, Viren imagines he can still feel it when Aaravos leans in closer, an unsettling line of tingles that erupt along his arm and shoulder. “You’ve thought about it.” </p><p> </p><p>Torn between righteous outrage and surprise, Viren can only expel a short blast of laughter in response. <em> “No,” </em>he chokes out, finally looking sideways to see Aaravos peering at him closely. “No, I most certainly have not.”</p><p> </p><p>“You have no...partner, you take no lovers, yet you recoil at the very idea,” Aaravos says, as if Viren is a fascinating puzzle to be solved. “I assume your children weren’t the product of immaculate conception.”</p><p> </p><p>“Why are we talking about this?”</p><p> </p><p>Aaravos gives a longsuffering sigh, lowering himself to lay along the ground, turned sideways to face Viren as he tucks one arm beneath his head, propping up one knee, as if they were two friends having a leisurely chat at a slumber party. Viren again glances around, if only to prevent himself from ogling the elf’s long, slender form, laid out so invitingly before him. “Humor me,” he murmurs, flicking his eyes over Viren with a knowing smirk.</p><p> </p><p>Viren shakes his head with a shrug of surrender, resigning himself to the conversation. “We’re on the brink of war, and you want to know about my...love life.”</p><p> </p><p>Aaravos grins. “What better time? If we’re to be...together for the foreseeable future, I see no harm in us getting to know each other a bit better.”</p><p> </p><p>Viren blinks, steadfastly ignoring the sudden unsteady gallop in his chest, willing his voice not betray him. For once, his will prevails. “Are you going to ask me something, or?”</p><p> </p><p>Aaravos bats one foot gently forward, nudging at Viren’s leg with the toe of his boot. Viren jumps, staring down at the retreating foot with shock. That was...<em> solid</em>. His skin prickles where they touched, despite the layers separating skin. “H-how are you able to—”</p><p> </p><p>“It takes a surprising amount of willpower, unfortunately,” Aaravos confesses, reaching over again to brush his fingers <em> through </em> the same spot on Viren’s leg, nonetheless bringing goosebumps to the surface of his skin. “The magic that keeps me imprisoned prevents me from holding a true form for long.” Whatever he sees in Viren’s expression makes his lips curl in something like triumph. “You are...disappointed?”</p><p> </p><p>Viren cocks an eyebrow at him, scowling, again hoping the sudden uptick in his heart rate is undetectable. “I wasn’t expecting that.” He is not touching the notion of <em> disappointment </em> at Aaravos’ incorporeality with a ten foot pole. “What is it you want to know?” Something in the quirk of Aaravos’ widening smile and raised eyebrows telegraphs amused realization, and it makes Viren deeply uncomfortable.<em> “What?”</em></p><p> </p><p>Aaravos just laughs to himself, then his attention is caught by something over Viren’s shoulder. Viren traces the path of his eyes until he sees his son, and sits up, clearing his throat.</p><p> </p><p>“Soren.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, Dad.” Soren’s gaze drags slowly from Viren to the ground, eyebrows narrowing in wary confusion. “Were you...? Never mind.”</p><p> </p><p>Viren ignores Aaravos’ quiet snicker, rising smoothly to stand. “Alert me if anything.”</p><p> </p><p>“Course,” Soren replies, avoiding his eyes. Ah. Right. Viren wonders if he should say anything about—earlier, then immediately banishes the thought. Especially after that unexpected proposition, what could he even say? He drops a useless hand on Soren’s shoulder, then walks away and back to the tent without another word. </p><p> </p><p>//</p><p> </p><p>Soren’s shift is almost over; as he suspected, nothing and no one dares attack their sizable camp in the night. He takes a small sip from a canteen that one of the Katolian soldiers had left with him; she warned him against drinking too much, but that wasn’t his style. He needed a clear head in the morning, and too much wine always upset his stomach, anyway. Just enough to take the edge off. He’s gazing up at the stars, losing himself in the vastness of the inky sky, when quiet steps approach and pause. He sits up and barely stops himself from toppling in surprise to find Prince Kasef watching him warily.</p><p> </p><p>“My Prince,” he says automatically, flushing at the inadvertent familiarity of the phrase. “Uh—Prince Kasef.” Kasef raises an eyebrow, also looking a bit taken aback, and Soren wonders if maybe a surprise sinkhole right where he’s standing might be kind enough to rid him of any future embarrassment.</p><p> </p><p>“Kasef is fine.” </p><p> </p><p>“Right. Sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>“Can I get some of that?” Kasef’s hair is down, <em> that’s </em> what's different, Soren realizes suddenly, taking in the thick fall of strands that rest over one shoulder, longer than he would have expected. The shorter bit in front swerves gently away from the stern, angular jawline in an appallingly appealing bang, and Claudia’s words come floating back: <em> Just talk to him! Instead of staring all the time! </em> Kasef is once again watching him with eyebrows narrowed in suspicion, one arm outstretched questioningly, pointing to the canteen in Soren’s hand. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah! Of course,” he answers finally, stepping a bit closer to hand it over. Kasef shoots him another look as he takes it, but nods in thanks before bringing it to his lips, tipping his head back, and Soren looks away so as not to watch him swallow, though he imagines it anyway. “Nice night,” he says inanely, because he always has to say something, and resigns himself to more of those gorgeously confused looks at his awkward conversational gambits.</p><p> </p><p>Kasef snorts. “If you say so.” He takes another sip, hands it back to Soren. “Thanks.” For a minute, it seems like he’s about to walk away, but then he pauses, glancing at Soren out of the corner of his eye. “How much longer do you have to…?”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh,” Soren scoffs with inflated self-importance, waving a hand dismissively. “I am <em> out </em> here, you know? It’s—duty calls, and everything. Crown guard, you know how it is.” Word soup. Isn’t that how his dad had described his rambling, once? Yet again, he deeply resents the accuracy. But if anyone is going to cut this encounter short, it won’t be him.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t, actually,” Kasef rejoins smoothly, a corner of his lip quirking upwards before he turns to look away and down the silent row of camps, clearly trying to conceal the lighter expression. Soren clenches his jaw against a wholly inappropriate grin, determined to wring another smile out of the prince before the night is through. </p><p> </p><p>Emboldened, he decides to push his luck, returning to where he was sitting and taking a sip before wordlessly extending the wine again and waggling it, as if hoping to tempt Kasef with it. The prince’s dark eyes travel over Soren and he shakes his head once, glancing back at his tent. “I should—”</p><p> </p><p>“Come on,” Soren cajoles softly, hardly believing the words coming out of his mouth, but it’s too late, he has no choice but to commit now. Thankfully, Kasef doesn’t take offense, just presses his lips together in a disapproving frown before coming in closer to lower himself to the ground beside Soren. They aren’t touching, but Soren can still imagine the solidity and weight of Kasef’s shoulder, his muscled arm, pressed against his own. The night air holds a slight chill, but Soren is positively steaming beneath his armor. The next time Kasef accepts the offered canteen, their fingers brush together, which doesn’t help matters at all.</p><p> </p><p>The tips of Soren’s ears grow warm and he clears his throat a bit too loudly, shattering the silence. “Would have pegged you for a bourbon guy, honestly,” he babbles, this time unable to drag his eyes away from the smooth line of Kasef’s throat as he drinks. The half-puzzled, half-suspicious side eye he receives in response is already too familiar and endearing for Soren to handle, so he keeps talking. “Hang on, do you guys even have bourbon in Noodl—ha, uh, <em> Neolandia, </em> or do you call it something else? You know, it’s the liquor that’s brown, kind of bitter, sometimes a little sp—”</p><p> </p><p>“We have bourbon,” Kasef interrupts wearily, then makes a show of looking into the canteen before glancing over at Soren. “Wow. How much of this did you drink?”</p><p> </p><p>“Not much,” Soren replies, nonplussed, then, amused: “Oh, no, I’m not drunk.”</p><p> </p><p>“So you’re just naturally like this,” Kasef concludes, handing back the wine, sending Soren a smirk that’s not exactly kind, but he’s not getting up to leave either. “Kind of hard to believe you’re—” and then his expression smooths completely, save for the sudden tightening of his jaw as he looks away, the rest of his sentence up and abandoned.</p><p> </p><p>It’s probably for a good reason, but Soren is way too curious to let it go. “That I’m...what?”</p><p> </p><p>A few tense beats, then: “You’re just very different from your dad.” </p><p> </p><p>Ugh. “Oh, thanks,” Soren blurts without thinking, then winces. “I mean—”</p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t mean any offense,” Kasef grits out, still avoiding eye contact, and Soren blinks, then laughs. At the unexpected sound, Kasef whips his head around, watching Soren carefully, his expression still pinched and wary. “What’s so funny?”</p><p> </p><p>Soren can sometimes be a bit slow on the uptake, certain social cues flying over his head, so it’s always a welcome change of pace to be on the other side of that conversational divide; it doesn’t happen often. “Nothing, it’s fine. Uh, none taken.”</p><p> </p><p>They sit in silence for a while longer, passing the wine back and forth, stars twinkling overhead. Soren realizes with a small jolt that their sides are now fully pressed together, and he can’t help but look down at Kasef’s right hand, perched casually on his raised knee, his fingers long and tapered, a solid gold ring encircling his thumb. He can sense when Kasef follows the line of his gaze because his hand twitches, closes into a fist. Soren glances over at him at the same time that Kasef turns to look, their eyes catching in the still, dark night.</p><p> </p><p>“How many battles have you fought?” Kasef asks quietly, his voice belaying a level of vulnerability that Soren knows is only permitted because of the late hour, the alcohol flowing warm through their veins. Not a question he was expecting, by any means, but this is a much safer course than the paths his mind was beginning to wander.</p><p> </p><p>“Uh, zero.” Soren smiles at Kasef’s noticeable surprise, nudges his shoulder before he can stop himself. “How old do you think I <em> am</em>, exactly?”</p><p> </p><p>Kasef frowns, his eyes raking over Soren’s face. “Around my age, I guess. I just thought...I don’t know.”</p><p> </p><p>“Is this your f—,” Soren begins, then tries again. “Have you? Fought any battles? You seem like a guy with a body count.” Soren regrets the joke as soon as it’s left his mouth, but alas.</p><p> </p><p>Kasef grimaces in confusion. “What is <em> that </em> supposed to mean?”</p><p> </p><p>“It was supposed to be a compliment. Cuz you’re all—” Soren waves a hand in Kasef’s general direction, suddenly feeling the effects of the wine, which he’d partaken of more thoroughly than he’d planned. “You’ve got this whole, like, rugged battle stance, and everything.”</p><p> </p><p>“Rugged battle stance?” Kasef repeats with a faint smile, ducking his head down to hide it, hair falling into his face. It takes every ounce of self control for Soren not to reach out, run his fingers through it, pull it back so he can see that smile again. “Thanks, I think? And no.”</p><p> </p><p>“...No?” Soren is transfixed by the way Kasef is taming his hair, coiling its mass around one hand with practiced ease, dropping it back over one shoulder and tucking the stray strands behind his ear, which bears two thin gold hoops in the upper lobe. So transfixed he loses track of the conversation entirely.</p><p> </p><p>“No, I’ve never—this is my first time riding into battle too,” Kasef responds, oblivious to Soren’s distracted state. “Not what I expected.”</p><p> </p><p>Right, right. “What were you expecting?”</p><p> </p><p>Kasef shrugs, and something about the uncharacteristic looseness of the motion lets Soren know that he’s likely tipsy as well. “I don’t know. I—my parents, they made it seem like I would be leading the charge, when in reality I feel like I’m still…”</p><p> </p><p>“Following?” Soren snorts bitterly, rolling his eyes. “Yeah man, I get it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Do you?” Their legs are touching, now. Soren’s left leg, Kasef’s right. For once, the slow swoop in the pit of Soren’s stomach does not completely derail his train of thought, but it’s a close thing.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, you know,” he hedges, holding himself completely still, loath to disturb the thrilling equilibrium they’ve achieved. “It’s damned if you do, damned if you don’t, right? Take the initiative, be a leader, get put in your place. Hang back, wait for orders, and then you’re underestimated. There’s no reasonable middle ground.” There’s a pregnant pause, in which he hears his words echo back to him, all of the resentment they hold. He hadn’t meant to be quite <em> so </em> honest.</p><p> </p><p>Kasef is shaking his head, and Soren is surprised to hear him choke out a bitter laugh. “Tell me about it,” he murmurs, almost too low for Soren to hear. Soren does, though, and he feels the most peculiar blend of sympathy and frustration, for the impossible circumstances that have brought them here, for the expectations that weigh them both down, for this stupid broken world that may very well snatch whatever precious few days, weeks, of their young lives they have left. Maybe it’s that extremely depressing thought, or maybe it’s the wine, or maybe it’s just his last fuck waving a merry farewell as it slips off into the thick night, but Soren doesn’t see any reason why he shouldn’t turn and lean towards Kasef, angling his head as he goes in for a kiss. To his shock and delight, Kasef responds immediately and tenfold, lips parting with a soft groan, sweeping his tongue in to curl against Soren’s, the kiss growing more needy and urgent by the second. And then, in a blink, Kasef wrenches himself away and scrambles to stand, his face both miserable and furious.</p><p> </p><p>“We shouldn’t—this can’t happen,” he whispers harshly, and then he’s gone, stalking back to his tent without so much as a backward glance. </p><p> </p><p>Soren watches him go, mouth still wet and tingling, feeling as if he’d been slapped. What the fuck? What the fuck was that? </p><p> </p><p>He stays in the same spot for a long time before finally giving up and going to bed.</p><p> </p><p>//</p><p> </p><p>There was a time that Viren used to braid Claudia’s hair.</p><p> </p><p>She doesn’t know why she revisits these memories so often; it’s not like the dad she had back then is anything like the one she has now, the one leading this massive army into a war she can hardly conceptualize or see past, but it’s not like there’s much else to occupy her mind. Reciting spells and <em>there is no synonym for cinnamon</em> is only useful for staving off or powering through actual panic attacks, but this endless, dusty journey into Xadia has her feeling anything but jittery. She almost wishes something <em> would </em> happen, if only for the sake of livening things up, but banishes the thought just as quickly: things would get exciting soon enough. </p><p> </p><p>So for now, she loses herself in memory, drifting back to the hazy grey of her childhood, when the days were mostly endurable and the nights the actual worst, when she cried herself to a restless, nightmare-ridden sleep more often than not. Soren was a comfort, in his own way, but he had his own guilt to poorly handle, and it was patently obvious that her dad felt out of his depth, suddenly the sole caretaker of two needy children under 10. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>After Lissa left, Viren could have retreated, succumbed to the pressure, which was likely what curious, gossipy onlookers expected. What they didn’t see was the way Viren hesitated after saying good night to Claudia one night, watching her with cautious eyes. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “What is it, Daddy?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Claudia, I—I know this has been very difficult for you. I know I can never hope to replace your mother, but I’m...here. For whatever you need.” He pauses, reaches out to smooth his fingers through her dark hair, eyebrows narrowing when she hisses in slight pain. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “It’s all tangled,” she whispers miserably, and Viren notices that it is indeed a rather matted mess, with random flyaways framing her small face. “I try to braid it like mom did, but I’m not very good at it.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Viren quietly endures dull, agonizing sweep of regret and sorrow, now as familiar to him as breathing. Well, this is something he can do. He’s not exactly sure how, but he can figure it out. Tapping her forehead lightly, he gestures for her to sit up, then stands and crosses over to her vanity, looking for her hairbrush. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Daddy, what are you doing?” she asks, and her eyes widen when he returns to her bed, a small giggle slipping out. “Since when do you know how to brush hair? You hardly have any.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> “ </em> Excuse <em> me,” he returns with raised eyebrows, caught between mild offense and grudging amusement. “I have plenty of hair. Come here.” </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Claudia complies, clambering out of bed to sit on the floor between his legs, then turns to scowl up at him in warning. “Are you going to do some funky magic to make my hair purple, or something?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Viren shrugs grandly, setting the brush aside for a moment to focus on loosening the elastic band from the end of her braid, then slowly pulling the strands loose, taking care not to tug on any of the tangles. “Only if you want me to.” Her mother likely would have disapproved, but she’s gone now. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>She’s gone now, and she's not coming back. </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> “Hmm. I’ll think about it,” Claudia returns primly, drawing her knees up to her chin, looping her arms around them with a sigh. “Is this going to take forever? You </em> are <em> a beginner, you know.” </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Viren grins, unseen, as he continues finger-combing through the long, dark strands. He’ll take the childish sarcasm and complaints; this is the most she’s spoken to him in two weeks. “Have I ever told you about the legend of the dragon queen Virenya and Persephone, her human protege, turned mortal enemy?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Only a million times,” she grumbles.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Viren hums noncommittally, noting with a silent sigh that her pajama sleeves and pant legs are riding way too high. His children are growing like weeds—he’ll have to see to getting them measured and fitted for new additions to their wardrobes soon. First thing tomorrow there is a High Council meeting, and then he’ll debrief with Harrow; he’s supposed to meet with some ambassadors from Evenere after that, but with some finagling perhaps he can squeeze in a visit to Greta, his seamstress, before lunch with the children— </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Okayyyy, well, you can tell me about Persephone’s magic again,” Claudia demands, interrupting his train of thought. “Please? Ow.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Sorry,” Viren frowns, his hands stilling, patting her head in contrition. Starting from the ends with the brush will be his best bet, long as it may take. “Well it all began when Persephone wandered too far away from her parents one day during a trip into Xadia to collect some mysterious fruits…” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>A sudden shout of laughter disrupts the memory, and Claudia glances back to see some Katolian soldiers sharing a joke, the late afternoon sun glinting off their armor. She straightens in the saddle and glances over at Soren, sitting straight-backed on his horse, as silent and stoic as he’d been since she shook him awake hours ago. Aside from grunting his thanks at the proffered morning potion, then asking for another serving, and then another, he’d barely said two words to her or anybody else, despite her attempts to draw him into conversation. Another argument with their dad, most likely, but pushing the issue clearly isn’t working, so she just has to sit and wonder.</p><p> </p><p>His confession in their tent last night still nags at her, the stubborn set of his jaw as he questioned the entire purpose of their being here, marching into foreign lands to declare war. Claudia won’t pretend to understand the historical and political intricacies that have led them to this point; she has little interest in such minutiae and trusts their father implicitly. He was sorely misunderstood, widely reviled for his unconventional methods and brusque manner, but that didn’t make him a <em> villain. </em>An eye for a damn eye, that seems simple enough. Why should they cower in their beds, waiting to be wiped out by a sudden blast of dragonfire, if they have the power and the means to rid themselves of that threat? </p><p> </p><p>Anyway, she knows how it feels to be abandoned by family, the very people who are supposed to love and protect you, be there when no one else is. She’ll never forget that feeling, nor the impossible crossroads of being asked to choose. And she’ll do everything in her power to never face that kind of decision again. </p><p> </p><p>//</p><p> </p><p>“Tell me, Viren,” Aaravos begins, as the distance between them and the army widens in flowing plains of Lux Aurea, Viren having instructed them to wait nearby while he confers with the Sunfire Queen. “Do you trust me?”</p><p> </p><p>Viren looks over at his translucent companion with suspicion, feeling unmoored, as always, at the smug, knowing smile he receives in return. “At this point I’m not sure I have much of a choice,” he grumbles. “Never mind the fact that we may be walking towards my doom, which you’re clearly fine with.”</p><p> </p><p>“Death lurks behind every corner,” Aaravos replies dismissively, shrugging.</p><p> </p><p>“Says the thousand-something year old immortal elf.”</p><p> </p><p>Aaravos’ lips twitch as he tilts his head in concession. “Come, the hour grows late. How is your gag reflex?”</p><p> </p><p>Viren’s horse whines and grunts in irritation, coming to a sudden stop, as unexpectedly commanded. “My <em> what?” </em>Viren snaps, feeling his cheeks grow impossibly warm. He expects Aaravos to burst into laughter, but is somehow more disturbed when he doesn’t, just watches Viren calmly, waiting for him to regain his composure.</p><p> </p><p>“Your gag reflex,” he repeats slowly. Viren just stares, ignoring the prickles that climb up his neck. They didn’t have time for this...whatever this was.</p><p> </p><p>“Wh—”</p><p> </p><p>“I will require a host to properly assist you in there,” Aaravos explains patiently, gesturing with his head toward the gleaming Sunforge. “Their high mage, ideally, as they will be holding the staff and be at the Queen's side. You’re well acquainted with my familiar.” The creature perched on Viren’s shoulder scuttles around his neck, now such an expected sensation Viren doesn’t flinch. “You will need to bring it with you inside. Completely undetected. Surely you can work out the rest.”</p><p> </p><p>Viren rubs his eyes as realization dawns, swallowing involuntarily. “And I suppose this is the <em> only </em> way to—” he opens his eyes, cutting himself off at the mischievous gleam in Aaravos’ eyes, face once again flooding with heat. “Forget it.”</p><p> </p><p>“I thought you might not take to the alternative.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, thank you, message received.”</p><p> </p><p>“Though it would leave <em> quite </em> the impression, to be sure. One for the history books.”</p><p> </p><p>“I am begging you to shut up.”</p><p> </p><p>To Aaravos’ credit, he does, though his shoulders shake a bit with laughter, which Viren ignores. Plucking the creature off of his shoulder, he notes with mild alarm how much it's grown in the past few days. He knows it has something to do with the intensity of the power Aaravos has shared with him along their journey, but even the reassurance of the wellspring of pure magical energy currently at his disposal does little to make what he’s about to do seem more, well, palatable.</p><p> </p><p>“Down the hatch,” Aaravos says with a small smile. “Mind your teeth.”</p><p> </p><p>Viren ignores him, steeling himself, then shakes his head briefly as he brings the slowly undulating caterpillar to his lips. He takes a breath in, lets it out. Then, tipping his head back, he opens his mouth wide.</p><p> </p><p>//</p><p> </p><p>Kasef doesn’t know much about dark magic. There have always been rumors of dark mages in the capital city, but never in the castle; not to his knowledge. He’d overheard his parents’ concerned whispers after his father’s meeting of the Pentarchy a little over a month ago, but hadn’t gleaned much in the way of <em> fact</em>, as opposed to paranoid rumor. His parents, moreso his father, had always been well-versed in the latter. </p><p> </p><p>But the strange, dark gleam in Viren’s eyes as he addresses the troops, the inhuman pallor of his skin—scarred and mottled grey—it is undeniably...<em> off</em>, and it’s alarming. And yet, <em> and yet, </em>Kasef despairs, there is something grotesquely beautiful about him, a more commanding and fearsome presence than he’s ever been, his unsettling animal—or insect—familiar enormous and curled calmly across his shoulders. Kasef chances furtive looks to his left and right, to the seemingly endless rows of soldiers, who are all watching Viren with similarly awed and terrified expressions. Well, at least he isn’t the only one. Despite the triple humiliation of a few days’ past, Kasef is still here, still enraptured by the promise the man before them seemed to hold. He thinks of his poor, pathetic father, broken and bleeding on the floor of his own throne room, and burns anew with righteous fury. He’s succumbed to temptation and paid the price; he can’t afford any more missteps now. Vengeance is his goal, his purpose. Vengeance, the glory of his kingdom, the honor of the throne he would one day inherit. All things Viren can provide. </p><p> </p><p>He watches, with a taste like ashes in his mouth, as Soren hesitates, and then refuses his father in the sight of the entire army. And feeling desperate, suddenly, to feel less, to want less, to be worth more, Kasef jerks his horse forward, ignoring Soren’s weighted gaze on him.</p><p> </p><p>“I volunteer,” he calls out, and watches Viren’s eyes snap over to him, cold, calculating, and slightly disappointed. And then he nods once, tightly, and says something—his words blurred and distorted through the rush of blood in Kasef’s ears—beckoning him forward. He obeys, not missing the way Soren’s face hardens before he backs up and turns, brushing past his sister and disappearing into the night.</p><p> </p><p>“King Ahling would be proud, son,” Viren tells Kasef with an odd curl of his lips. And then he’s pointing his stolen staff at Kasef and speaking in an ancient tongue that slithers down his spine like cloudy tendrils of ice, and then the ice becomes a liquid<em> inferno, </em> splintering into him and shattering every bone, filleting every muscle and nerve and he might be screaming, he’s not sure, he can only watch in distant horror as his limbs spasm and contort and he can hear his mother’s voice echoing oddly in his ears—Jesse and Vanessa’s breathless giggles as they tumble into his bed with their sour morning breath and tiny feet—his father’s droning, heartfelt lectures, all the times Kasef rolled his eyes and refused to match that easy, open paternal affection with his own—fuck, it <em> burned, it will never stop burning </em>—his mother, would she know, would she be—?</p><p> </p><p>When the prince opens his eyes, monstrous and shot through with molten flame, he doesn’t know his name. He knows only cinder, and rage.</p><p> </p><p>//</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, where the <em> hell </em>—Soren!” Claudia casts a careful look over her shoulder to be sure there are no eyes on her before she turns, running to catch up to her brother. “Soren, stop!” </p><p> </p><p>He groans in defeat when she comes close enough to grab his shoulder, try to yank him towards her, though she’s barely able to actually exert much force over him. But that’s just it, right? She’s always been too weak to wield any real control. Just buffeted about by the will of others. She glares at him, poking a finger, hard, into his chest, her nail clicking uselessly against his breastplate. He used to try to pick her up when they were kids, drawing alarmed shouts from their father as they inevitably toppled over, both of them laughing too hard to speak. The sudden memory stings, alcohol splashed into an open wound.</p><p> </p><p>“You <em>said</em> you wouldn’t go.” Her voice is shaking too much to be very loud, but Soren can hear it. He can hear how livid she is, because his eyes widen as he watches her, but there’s none of the quick, open surrender she’s become used to.</p><p> </p><p>“You saw what I saw. This isn’t right.”</p><p> </p><p>“So you just leave? Just like that?”</p><p> </p><p>“This is not some rash decision, Claudia. We talked about this.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, and you’re doing exactly what you said you wouldn’t do!”</p><p> </p><p>“Claudia, I—”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Hypocrite!” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Soren’s breaths come faster, and he glances past her shoulder, visibly frustrated. “Keep your voice down.”</p><p> </p><p>“Scared of Dad finding you trying to desert him?” she snarls, clenching her jaw against a sob. She refuses to cry. She’s sick and tired of <em> crying. </em>When will people stop leaving her?</p><p> </p><p>Soren closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them, she takes a step back.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Fuck </em> Dad,” he growls, not moving, but appearing menacing all the same. “<em>Fuck </em> his brainwashing, and fuck his war. I’m <em> done. </em> You should think carefully about what exactly you’re doing here.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m <em>trying</em> to stick by my family!”</p><p> </p><p>“Right.” Soren huffs a rueful breath through his nose and shakes his head before turning. He’s several paces away when she speaks.</p><p> </p><p>“You think she would be proud of you right now, Soren?” Claudia asks quietly, and he pauses. Not too far away, there’s a rising chorus of inhuman growls and shrieks, the slow birth of Viren’s new and corrupted army. It’s the sound of certain victory. Of a new and terrifying world about to begin.</p><p> </p><p>“Actually, sis,” Soren grits out, throat tight, as he turns back to look at her one last time. He wonders, distantly, if he'll ever hear her snorting laughter again. “I think she would be.”</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>:(</p></blockquote></div></div>
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